Page 15 of Spring's Arcana
Maybe the effort of bringing a gift—and standing in line at the coffee shop—made up for a few minutes’ worth of waiting. Dimahadn’t quite decided yet, but the traitor’s agony was real, raw, and excruciating.
In other words, delicious. He lowered the cup, exhaling. “Did he go well?”
“Well enough, for a two-faced bastard.” Sergei’s tone was hushed, whether out of deference to the setting or his companion was an open question. Not too long ago—well within a mortal lifetime—Dima had withdrawn protection from an in-law who made the mistake of spitting at the bishop during a parade.
You could wink at formality, but only so far.
Movement brushed the edges of sacred hush. Someone was polishing with beeswax in the vicinity of the choir loft, a few old black-wrapped babushkas dotted pews nearer the altar, their kerchief-wrapped heads bent. Yet more invisible activity was tapers being replaced, a priest chanting softly—practicing for a greater mass—while riffling thick, antique pages in a very large book.
You might almost think some true power resided here. If it did, Dmitri had never been troubled by it.
“I heard a rumor this morning.” Sergei stared at the altar.
Well, that was quick. “I heard one as well.” He wasn’t quite lying, Dima heard rumors all the damn time. They filled the air like radioactive particles after a power plant explosion, like small denominations at a strip club, like batons and groans in a “police action.”
Sergei forged ahead. “Mine is strange, uncle. I heard the way to a heart has been found.”
“A what, now?” Baba had wasted no time whispering the news into unfriendly ears, or the very air itself carried tales. Either was equally likely. “Heart, eh? Such a little thing.” Dima studied the altar and the cross above, a massive gold-leaf glowing thing. Its extra bar was a broken appendage, maybe a nice branch for a pale milksop to rest his feet while the nails were found and a hammer arranged. “What good is it?”
“I’m sureIdon’t know,” Sergei agreed, loyally. “What should I do?”
If it had been a normal day, Dmitri would have ordered the rumormongers brought to him, either for a lesson or their secrets to be fully plumbed. Yet this bright morning he stretched, languidly, and admired his boot-toes. They were much better than the cross. What could two lathes lashed together give you that stamping on a man’s face wouldn’t?
Not a whole lot, he thought, as he did every other time. Still, even sheep needed divinities; the wolves ate better when a shepherd prepared the meal.
“Find whoever is whispering of such a thing.” His tone had turned quiet, and a faint thread of ice ran underneath the words. “Collect their names.”
Of course, he might be out of town soon if Maruschka’s little daughter managed to get the location out of her dear mama. Maybe the blonde bitch had hid it in this very city—unlikely, but if it were so, Dmitri wouldn’t have to travel very far.
And then he would feast.
“Yes, uncle.” Sergei hesitated, in case his superior had another task to give him.
Fortunately, Dmitri did. “There’s a yellow house on South Aurora, in Brooklyn.”A place that was hidden until a little girl came to visit grandmother. Maschka, you beautiful liar.He gave the address, knowing his faithful little nephew would memorize what was written on air. “I want a watch kept. Everyone who goes in or out—and my eyes must do itquietly,little one, for above all else I wish to know who else is watching.”
If Maschka had help other than Baba’s, it would be good to know.
“Yes, uncle.”
He waved Sergei away and took another gulp of copper-laced coffee as the old man slid from the pew, crossed himself, bobbed a bow, and paced off carrying his overcoat over one arm. The caffeine was a pleasant burn, and new strength washed through him. Offerings were good; so was faith.
But what Dima liked best was thefear. There was never anyshortage of turncoats; someone should get a benefit, no matter how small, from the treasonous. Friendly wasn’t going to like that one of his moles had been pried free of the tunnels.
Brooklyn. All this time, she was hiding right here.
He could even find it amusing. Oh, he hadn’t expected anything other than eventual betrayal from grasping, starving Maschka Drozdova. He’d even enjoyed himself for a while. Knowing how the story would end meant you could appreciate the ride.
Dmitri listened as Sergei reached the front door, his tingling ears alert for a sigh or any chance that his nephew disliked the task he’d been set.
There was none. An old wolf knew very well whence his next meal arrived. And a heart was such a little thing indeed. It could be argued that lacking one was a distinct advantage here in shining, roomy America.
Dima could almost taste thezaika’s blood, once he had her charmed into finding the gem and taking away whatever setting Maschenka put it in. Baba was right, it wouldn’t be like Maria Drozdova to simply steal the thing and hide it in a sock.
She wouldn’t have been so entrancing if she were that uncomplicated. But now Dima wondered just how lovely she was anymore.
It might be time to visit her. But as soon as he thought it, he realized he didn’t want to. Let her lie abed and wait, knowing her precious daughter was in Dmitri Konets’s hands and soon, soon, soon indeed what was his would be returned.
He eyed the pews, the babushkas in the front, the altar. Someone in the assembling choir—whispers and ruffles of paper, children gathering to sing to a pale, distracted masochist during a celebration far older than the divinity it claimed to honor—had a guilty conscience, and the tiny wickedness was a sharp counterpoint to the incense-soaked air and the whispering candles. Even the priests in the building were only tarnished, not truly soiled.
